


Ex opere operato

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-04
Updated: 2007-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not just hunting <em>things</em>, they're saving <em>people</em>, and that's always been the most important part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex opere operato

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.

_i. Baptism_

Twice he's pulled Sam from the fire, and once back from death itself. Dean wonders if that makes Sam born again, if he can walk on water, or raise the dead. He tries not to think about the demon's words, that Sam might not be one hundred percent Sam anymore, tries to remember that Sam's always had that anger simmering inside--it used to erupt at Dad all the time, and as much as Dean would like to forget, it was already there when Ellicott got hold of Sam in the asylum. Aiming it at Jake and pulling the trigger is just the first time Sam's ever let it take over while he's hunting, and Dean can't really feel bad about that, not after what Jake did. Still, he worries, has spent his whole life worrying about Sam and he isn't going to stop now.

He's only got a year left, knows he can't make all the bad things disappear, but he watches as Sam sleeps in the passenger seat, listens to the soft in-out rhythm of his breathing, and knows he's looking at every right thing he's ever done. Knows he'd do the same thing again tomorrow, without hesitation.

*

_ii. Reconciliation_

He knows Sam's determination is fueled as much by anger as by fear, knows there's love underlying it all. They never talk about it, but it's there. Thing is, Dean can barely remember a time love wasn't edged with fear and anger, when joy was undiluted by pain. So he rides it out, lets Sam bitch and moan, lives every day like the gift it is, whether they're salting and burning bones, exorcising demons, or just driving from one place to another. This is his life and he's living it, taking the time he has left and wringing every bit of experience out of it, knowing that even this isn't really his, that he should be dead twice over, and that the deal with the crossroads demon is nothing more than restoring the natural order of things. The darkness smiles, and Dean grins back, same as always.

It's after the adrenaline rush of yet another exorcism that Sam turns to him, face split wide in a manic grin, joy at being alive singing in both of them, and says, "I understand why you did it, but I'm not letting you go. Your soul, Dean. I can't--"

Dean laughs, because it's not like Sam hasn't owned his soul for the past twenty-three years anyway. "I'm not sorry," he says.

"I know." Sam's hand on his face is a benediction. "I forgive you anyway."

*

_iii. Communion_

They're in Galveston for the Fourth, and late that afternoon, Dean insists on going to the beach.

"Wanna get a good spot for the fireworks," he says, ignoring Sam's incredulous look and packing the car with a couple of coolers and two beach chairs he stole from the deck of one of the nicer motels in town.

Most of the beachgoers are packing up and leaving when they arrive, and they're able to get a pretty good spot--close enough to the water to have a good view, but far enough away that the incoming tide doesn't threaten the old green plaid blanket he's laid out on the sand.

"You can put the cooler down, Sam."

"There's no beer in--Dean?"

"Thought we could do some actual grilling for once." Sam stares at him until he feels his ears burn with embarrassment. "What? I can't want a good home-cooked meal every once in a while?"

He's got steaks and some fresh corn on the cob, and another cooler full of beer. The great state of Texas provides the barbecue pit. It's been a while since he stood over a barbecue, but it comes back quickly once he's got the fire going.

They eat and watch the sun set, full-bellied and mellow.

There's one beer left when the fireworks start, and they pass it back and forth between them, oohing and ahhing with the crowd as mortars burst into brightly colored stars and showers. Dean looks over at Sam, his laughing face dappled from the exploding lights overhead, as open as the five-year-old sitting on the next blanket over, and feels an aching tightness in his chest.

Sam hands him the bottle of beer, barely a mouthful left at the bottom, probably piss-warm to boot, and he almost fumbles the hand-off. Sam's fingers are warm and steady against his, making sure he's got it before he lets go.

For the first time, Dean actually _believes_ Sam will save him.

*

_iv. Confirmation_

They take out a nest of vampires in Nashua, rescue a young couple who'd been captured, and when they're done, bodies burned to dust, ashes scattered to the wind, the guy says, "At least let us buy you breakfast."

It's weird eating with other people, but Dean's not one to turn down a free meal, and if someone wants to actually thank them for the job they've done, that's all right by him. Sam nods his agreement, stomach rumbling, and they pile into the car, heedless for once of the upholstery.

They're tired, dirty, and smell of sweat and smoke, but nobody seems to mind when they roll into the only all-night diner in the area.

Over bacon and eggs, pancakes and hash browns, and coffee so good it makes his eyes roll back in his head, Dean remembers why they do this, that they're not just hunting _things_, they're saving _people_, and that's always been the most important part, the thing that kept him going when Sam was gone and Dad ditched him, when he couldn't see a clear path towards anything but misery and loneliness.

He takes another slug of coffee and catches Sam's gaze, raising his mug in a silent salute. Sam grins in response, and Dean knows he gets it, too.

*

_v. Matrimony_

Sam puts him through a lot of rituals as the months pass, unsure any one will work on its own, but willing to believe that the combined power of all of them will add up to something.

"If they don't all just cancel each other out," Dean mutters, trying to hold still as Sam paints another set of runes on his bare skin.

Sam cuffs the back of his head, tells him to shut up. "You have to have the right attitude," he says. "That's as important as anything else."

Dean's not sure how it could be, but since Sam's all invested in the power of positive thinking, he keeps his doubts to himself, knowing that doubt can cripple even the best hunters at the worst of times.

Hope is just as dangerous, and he doesn't think he can pay that price, watch Sam's hope get snuffed out when none of his plans work and no miracle appears. When Sam starts to flag, Dean fakes it, tells him it will all be okay, the way he always does. He figures as long as one of them believes at any given moment, they should be all right.

As the day draws near, all of Dean's doubts start to crowd him, and he's tempted to pack up and run (a strategic retreat, he tells himself, laughing, advancing backwards in the face of enemy fire), something he's never done before; he thinks it might be easier on both of them if he's alone when the time comes, but Sam stops him with one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping the back of his neck, tipping his face up to make sure Dean holds his gaze.

"Whither thou goest," he says, and the solemn weight of the vow stills all of Dean's doubts.

*

_vi. Holy Orders_

Tricking the crossroads demon and killing her takes a lot out of them--Dean's got a concussion and three broken ribs, and Sam's been running on caffeine and sheer will for the past two months; exhaustion leaves him open to the latest flu bug and he's down with it for three weeks, ends up flat on his back with pneumonia. Dean spends the whole month panicked that they've saved themselves from a supernatural clusterfuck only to end up in a viral one.

The doctors say nothing but rest and time can help. Thanks to Sam, time is one thing they've got now--there's nothing pressing for the first time in their lives, no demons or deadlines clouding the horizon, and they can take the time to recover.

Dean finds a house the local bank's foreclosed on, clears out the lingering ghosts that made it unlivable, and scrounges up enough cash from various credit cards to put down a deposit and a couple months' rent upfront.

The house is old, but its bones are good--Sam likes the high ceilings and big windows. Dean likes the way there's always light in the corners, chasing the shadows away.

They spend a month getting healthy, and then Dean starts fixing the place up--painting the walls, re-shingling the roof, getting the old appliances back up to speed. Sam plants a garden once they've tamed the backyard--arnica, verbena, and monkshood growing beside basil, mint, and oregano. They spend most of their time in the sun--Dean burning and freckling, and Sam turning golden brown like some Hollywood star.

Two weeks later, they're both climbing the walls, and when Ellen calls with a job up in Spokane, Dean doesn't think before he says yes. He packs his duffel--always ready to go on a moment's notice--and says, "It's a one-man job, Sammy. You don't have to--"

But Sam's already at the car, bag packed and laptop under his arm. "Let's go," he says, smiling. "We're burning daylight."

Dean slides behind the wheel, grinning, and for the first time in a long time, he feels at home.

*

_vii. Anointing of the Sick_

Dean's never really cared about the stories behind the ghosts, the reasons why they can't pass on, why they need to stay, except as a means of solving the problem, figuring out how to get them gone. Sam's the one who thinks about that shit, wonders about whys and wherefores, and what comes after, and Dean's always been happy to leave him to it. Not until he was the one who had to make the choice, the vague memory of it still lingering with a sharp chill and a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about the days he spent in a coma, hovering on the edges between life and death, did he give it more than a moment's thought. In the past year, living on that edge like a tightrope walker without a net, he spent more time thinking about it than he did in the twenty-seven years that came before.

He knows--he's always known--that what they do is a good thing, that as much as he bitches and moans about not being thanked, the work itself is its own reward, the lives they've saved more important than the recognition he used to wish and hope for, before hope grew too expensive and even wishes became dangerous.

But now he sees the good they do the dead, too, freeing them from care, putting them to rest, with the spray of salt and lighter fluid, and the perfect arc of a lit match falling into a grave.

The bones catch, and the ghost goes up in a curtain of flame, sudden smile on her face, and Dean finds himself smiling back. It tastes like freedom.

Sam bumps his shoulder, a large, warm presence always at his side, and it feels like hope.

After they've filled in the grave, they drive off into the sunrise. It feels like the end of one thing and the start of something new.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Ex opere operato is a Latin phrase meaning "from the work done" referring to the efficacy of the Sacraments deriving from the action of the Sacrament as opposed to the merits or holiness of the priest or minister. ([source](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ex_opere_operato))


End file.
